And Rock and Roll
by Tashaelizabeth
Summary: Why Wilson should learn to knock.SLASH
1. Chapter 1

"House?"

Wilson dropped his bag by the door casually. The lights were on and the stereo was playing low. He stuffed his keys back into the pocket of his coat and shut the door behind him.

"House?" he called. "I'm back early. Wanna get takeout?"

There was no response. Wilson ambled into the kitchen and pulled open the fridge, scanning the contents. There was also no food. He grabbed a bottle.

"House? I'm taking the last beer." He shut the fridge. "Where are you? I know you're here."

Wilson crossed the apartment and glanced into the bathroom. Door open, no inhabitants. The faintest noise came from the bedroom.

"House?" Wilson called again and then, quite without thinking, pulled open the bedroom door.

Oh.

There was a girl.

There was a _naked_ girl, a very pretty one, and House was on top of her.

House was _fucking_ her.

Wilson's breath caught in his throat.

Despite the young beautiful female arching up, her face obscured by her hair, Wilson found himself staring at the pale sweaty skin of House's back, the tight muscles in House's neck and the fluffy thinning hair on the top of his head.

Wilson's couldn't move. He couldn't breath. He could just stare.

House looked up.

House looked right at him, into his eyes and he felt his chest burn from lack of oxygen. The bodies continued their rough, almost desperate, movements but House's head remained still, bright blue eyes boring into him.

Wilson finally, finally managed a breath. The sound was harsh and accidentally engaged his vocal cords and came out sounding like a little moan.

The woman reached up for House's head but he shook her off. His eyes were so big, so blue, Wilson thought, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck stick up.

House's lashes fell partly closed as though he were suddenly tired. His jaw went slack. The eyes didn't leave Wilson's. House's shoulders tensed and he convulsed with a series of low gasps.

Wilson waited until those eyes fell shut and the body collapsed over that of the beautiful girl. Then he shut the door.

"I think your friend saw us," he heard a woman's voice said.

"I know."

Wilson ran into the bathroom and slammed the door shut. He sat, quickly, on the floor, leaning his back against the door. Looking desperately around the brightly lit bathroom, he caught sight of the beer still in his hand and opened it, hurriedly taking a long drink.

Wilson heard the front door open and shut followed quickly by the building door. He took another drink.

There was a knock on the door.

"Wilson?"

"Yeah?"

"You have to come out eventually."

Wilson scrambled off the floor and hurriedly spun the tap. He cupped the water in his hands and rubbed it over his face.

"I thought you were at a conference in Chicago."

"I was," Wilson said. "Came home early."

"You maybe should have called," House said.

"Yeah, maybe."

Wilson twisted off the tap and leaned forward on his hands, staring at his reflection in the mirror.

"Are you okay?" House asked.

"Yeah." Wilson rubbed his eyes with his wet hands. The second his eyes closed, he saw those heavy lidded blue eyes.

The door opened.

Wilson looked up distractedly.

House had thrown on a pair of jeans and a thin red t-shirt. He was barefoot.

Wilson was very attentive to that fact. House was barefoot and his hair was mussed and he was pulling on his t-shirt with one hand, to rearrange it more comfortably against his sweaty back.

House quirked an eyebrow.

"Are you okay?" he asked again.

"I'm fine!" Wilson said, too quickly, too desperately and his voice just a bit too high.

House's eyebrow quirked higher. "Can I take a shower then?" he asked, indicating his body. "I smell like girl."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Of course," Wilson said, putting his head down and trudging past House. A hand snagged his arm, stopping him.

"Are you okay?" House asked a final time.

Wilson looked up into those, Damnit, blue eyes.

"Yeah," Wilson said, nodding furiously. House smelled like sex and it was making Wilson's head spin "I just didn't think…physically, I mean."

House cocked his head. "Didn't think what?"

"Didn't think you could _fuck_ like that."

House smiled, his head going down as he swallowed his laughter. Wilson's face flushed.

"How did you think…?" House started. Wilson pulled his arm away.

"Never mind," he muttered, trudging over to the couch. "Never mind. Take your shower."

House laughed, shutting the door. A few moments later, he heard the shower and turned on the TV, flicking through the channels as he tried to work things out.

Now, every time his eyes closed he saw House, not far from the couch he sat on, naked and squirming under the hot water.

It was a rather trying half hour. When the water finally shut off Wilson felt equal parts relief and abject terror.

House did not come out wearing only a towel, thank god, or Wilson thought his head might have exploded. No, he came out wearing the same clothes he'd had on before, looking very much the same, except that his hair was wet, uncombed, and strewn across his head in a random fashion.

House fell onto the couch and took the remote from Wilson.

"Why'd you come home early?"

"I caught an earlier flight. I didn't think…" Wilson said in much the same tone he had before.

House rolled his eyes.

"What didn't you think?"

"I thought it was a joke. The hookers, I mean, I thought it was just joking. Was that…"

"Yes. She says her name in Paula."

"She seems nice," Wilson said, before realizing how stupid that sounded.

"She is nice. She's in law school."

Wilson laughed derisively.

House spared a smile. "I know it sounds like a line, but I think she really is. We talked a few times and she seemed…on the level."

"You have a personal relationship with your prostitute. That's so…you."

House flipped the channel a few times before settling on an infomercial. An over tanned woman in khaki demonstrated how to prepare a Thanksgiving dinner using nothing but a blender.

"You don't _have_ to," Wilson blurted.

House looked away from the television to Wilson. "What?"

"You don't have to. Pay, I mean." Wilson looked at House awkwardly. "I mean…you're not unfortunate looking or anything. You could just go to bar. You have pretty eyes." Wilson flushed and tried to glance away, but found himself unable to turn.

"Do you know what kind of women pick me up in bars?" House asked.

"No."

The corner of House's mouth curled up and Wilson found himself wondering what it would be like to kiss it.

"Camerons," House said.

Wilson nodded, failing to catch the joke. They stared at each other, the air growing tenser with each heavy breath.

There was a knock on the door.

"Yeah?" House called, not breaking eye contact.

"Jimmy?"

Every muscle in Wilson's body tried to leap two feet higher then his skin. He snapped his gaze to the door. The girl stuck her head inside the apartment, smiling.

"I left my purse. Can I?"

House nodded. The woman strode across the apartment. Wilson was a little surprised to see her stylish clothes and sleek ponytail. The woman grabbed something from just inside the bedroom door and turned, giving them both a shy wave and shutting the door behind herself.

Wilson's mouth fell open. He raised his hand, curled it into a fist and struck House's shoulder.

"What?" House asked, snapping his face back towards Wilson.

"You told her your name was Jimmy?"

"Well, you have to tell them your name is something. I didn't say I was James Wilson, I just said Jimmy."

"Why?"

"I don't know."

Wilson did. It struck him quickly and with full force. "You like hearing my name," he said.

House hit the power button, turning off the television abruptly.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You like hearing my name and you liked looking at me."

"You were the one who didn't knock. You're the one who was staring."

Wilson grabbed House's t-shirt with both hands, pulling him forward. "You're the one that was _coming_," he said, then covered House's mouth with a fierce kiss.

House's skin was still hot from the shower and Wilson's hands found themselves drawn to heat, grasping House's forearms. House grabbed the lapels of his jacket and lifted, dragging Wilson's torso into his lap then pushed off the unnecessary coat. House smelled like soap. Wilson wasn't sure he found this an improvement. He squirmed to his knees, reaching for House's shirt.

House was, rather suddenly, gone.

Wilson opened his eyes and saw House disappear into the kitchen.

"I think you should go," House said.

Wilson remained on his knees, tottering off balance. "Why?"

"I think you should go."

Wilson scrambled off the couch and followed House. He was standing in front of his sink, staring anywhere but at Wilson.

"Why?" Wilson said, "What did I do?"

"Look," House said to his drain. "This is a really bad idea, so why don't you just go back to your hotel and we'll say you didn't get home until tomorrow."

Wilson gaped, glancing quickly from the couch and back again, in the last hour he seemed to have run all over the apartment. "If we're gonna go to all the trouble of blocking things out I should at least get something out of it." Wilson mumbled to himself.

House's back tensed.

Wilson flinched.

House spun around, trying to control his laughter.

Wilson grabbed him again, by the front of his t-shirt, and kissed him. House put a steadying hand on Wilson's hip and let his cane fall to the ground.

"Stop," he said against Wilson's lips. "Stop."

Wilson pulled back, but only a few inches.

"You're stretching out my shirt."

"Oh God," Wilson said, rolling his eyes and grabbing for House again.

"No," House said, pushing him back and leaning on hand on the sink to keep his weight balanced. "This is a bad idea."

"So? I'm not even here." He grabbed again, running the palm of one hand across House's stomach. House's eyes fluttered.

"Did you ever think the reason your relationships fail may be your tendency to jump straight into the sack?"

"Yeah, all those years I've known you…"

"Wilson," House said sternly, "I'm a guy."

Wilson took a step back.

"Jesus," he said, after a moment. "You are, aren't you?" He sat, rather quickly into the kitchen chair. One hand went to his temple. "I…I…I'm sorry. I…just…Jesus Christ, House!"

"There it goes."

Wilson pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes. "What am I doing?" he asked, plaintively.

"Playing soccer?" House asked. He reached out, got on hand on the table and levered himself into the opposite chair. "Sorry, no, that's American; the rest of the world calls it freaking the hell out."

"Why?"

"Because this evening began with a fairly homoerotic moment, despite the naked woman, and it turned you on."

It had, as did hearing House say the words 'turned you on.'

"_Jesus Christ_," Wilson said.

"Hey, get your own messiah to blasphemy."

"You told her your name was _Jimmy_," Wilson said.

"To be fair, I never thought you two would actually ever meet."

"I have to go," Wilson said quickly, pushing up from the table and running out of the kitchen. He got one hand on the doorknob, then ran back.

House was leaning back in his chair.

"I'm sorry," Wilson said, "I just…I have to think, you know?"

House laughed. "Yeah, I know the way you function by now."

Wilson stooped and retrieved House's cane, dropping it with a clatter on the table.

"I'm gonna go home."

"Right," House said, "you don't get home until tomorrow."

"Yeah, tomorrow." Wilson ran a hand through his hair. "I just need to think," he said, turning and walking at a slightly less frantic pace to the door. As he hoisted his duffel bag, he heard House in the kitchen.

"Just think quickly!"

Wilson left, slamming the door behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

Wilson's head ached.

He slammed his desk drawer shut and stalked from his office.

His head ached and there was apparently no aspirin in this entire goddamn hospital. He yanked open the door to the diagnostics lounge and entered, barely acknowledging the three heads bowed over the many papers strewn across the glass table.

Wilson poured himself a cup of coffee and took a sip. The pain still throbbed at his temples. He took another drink, stomped across the room and entered House's office.

It was darker in here and Wilson's frustration, though not his pain, diminished slightly. He lowered himself into House's chair and took a large gulp of coffee. Wilson opened a drawer. Files. He opened another. More files, topped by a copy of Maxim. He opened the bottom one. There, beneath some paperback novels, TV guide and an obscene amount of loose lollypops was a bottle of acetaminophen. Wilson swiped it, shook out two, downed them with the rest of his coffee and stuck the bottle in his coat pocket.

The florescent lights glared down on Wilson as he exited House's office and made his way to the elevator. Once inside he leaned against the wall and rubbed his head. This really was the monster of all headaches. He pulled the bottle from his pocket and dry swallowed one more pill.

"Yuck," Wilson said, his face contorting. He looked down into the bottle and squinted, trying to think past the painful glare of white plastic. Tylenol was coated, wasn't it?

A few minutes later, he barged past Cuddy's assistant and into her office.

House had apparently done this moments before, as Cuddy was considerably more aggravated then normal. He ignored her vicious glare and slammed the bottle down on her desk.

"This wouldn't happen to have anything illicit in it? Would it?" he asked House.

"Of course not," House said, giving a wry smile. "Um…how many did you take?"

Wilson fell onto Cuddy's couch, clutching his still throbbing head.

"You kept prescription painkillers in an unmarked bottle?" Cuddy yelled.

"It's marked! See. It's just not marked correctly." He turned to Wilson. "Are you on MAO inhibitors or anti-depressants?"

"No," Wilson said.

"Then you're fine." He turned to Cuddy. "He's fine. Can we get back to my patient and why you need to…?"

"Your patient?" Cuddy screamed. "Your patient doesn't want you anywhere near him and you know what? I don't blame him. Your team will deal with the patient. You are going do nothing today but deal with _this_…" She gestured frantically at Wilson's slumped form. "Right after you get _the hell_ out of my office."

House pushed himself to his feet and grabbed Wilson's arm, tugging him vertical "Come on."

Cuddy glanced at her desk. "And give me that goddamn bottle."

House sighed, removed the bottle from his pocket, where Wilson hadn't even been aware it was, and chucked it towards Cuddy's head.

House dragged Wilson through the clinic and into the elevator. As they rode up, he snaked his arm around Wilson's body, as though preparing to carry his weight.

"We could…" Wilson began, blinking against the bright lights.

"Anything we do would make you feel worse then the Vicodin. Enjoy the trip, some people pay for this."

They went to Wilson's office, House's hand still on his side. It felt nice, Wilson decided. House propped him up against the wall and grabbed the phone.

"What's your assistant's name?"

"Caroline."

"Carrie!" House snapped into the phone.

Wilson leaned his forehead against the wall. "Caroline."

"Cancel all of Dr. Wilson's appointments."

Wilson sighed.

"Because I said so, that's why. He's taking the day off." House grumbled. There was a pause as Caroline spoke. House rolled his eyes. "Because he's to stoned to work, that's why."

Wilson sighed a little harder.

House bundled him into the car and brought him home. House's home, actually, but Wilson often thought of it as home.

House dumped him on the couch.

"Does your head still hurt?"

"I don't know," Wilson whined miserably. He kicked off his shoes and curled his feet onto the couch.

"How's your stomach?"

"Why?"

A plate of something fell onto the table by Wilson's head. He ignored it, pulling the blanket off the back of the couch and pulling it over his head.

"One good thing, though," House said, taking the seat at his feet.

"What?"

"You're talking to me."

Wilson pulled the blanket off his head.

"I had to think," he said.

House cocked an eyebrow. "That was two weeks ago. You've barely spoken to me since."

"I know," Wilson said, covering his face with the blanket again.

"Eat something."

"I'm not hungry," Wilson said. As the words left his mouth, he became aware of their inherent whining tone. _I'm not hungreeeeeeee._

"Eat something," House repeated.

Wilson stuck a hand out from under the blanket and grabbed whatever was on the plate, bringing it under the blanket with him. He took a bite. Chocolate chip cookie. "Why?" he asked, bits of cookie still on his lips.

"Just in case," House said.

House turned on the television. Wilson watched a Law and Order rerun through the loose weave of the blanket. He found himself giggling a little more then necessary. When he suddenly guffawed as the street hustler attacked Lenny Briscoe, House pulled down the blanket roughly.

"Are you okay?" He asked and wasn't this the theme of the last few weeks? Wilson laughed.

House looked concerned and Wilson found himself very anxious to waylay that look.

"No, no. I'm fine," Wilson said, shaking his head slightly more emphatically then necessary. "It's just that's what you kept asking me that night, the night I freaked out and of course I freaked out, I mean I walked in on you having sex and you looked so _hot_ and I guess I never really thought about it, I mean, you looking hot but you do, all the time, and you were _looking_ at me like you were I guess it's sort of funny, you know? Will you kiss me?"

House drew back slightly. "Why?"

"Because my stomach hurts." The moment Wilson said this he realized it was true. His stomach did hurt, quite a lot actually.

"I told you to eat something."

"I know. I did. Chocolate chip. Will you kiss me?"

House put his arms around Wilson rather tenderly and gave him a chaste kiss on the lips. Wilson's eyes fell shut and stayed that way, even after House pulled away.

"That felt nice," Wilson said, dazed.

"I'm sure it did."

Wilson leaned over and dropped his head on House's shoulder. "The only other I time I've been on Vicodin was when I had my wisdom teeth pulled." He confided into House's ear. "This is much nicer."

"Um…thanks?" House slid his hand across the back of the couch and Wilson repositioned his head on House's chest, pulling the blanket up to his shoulder. They watched TV again. Wilson lay with his eyes closed, struggling to convince himself that A. he was not acting funny and 2. He was not about to fall asleep. As he rose up and down on the rhythm of House's breathing, he wondered why he'd spent the last week hiding in his office and avoiding the cafeteria. Him and House? He thought sleepily, this was nothing. Anybody could deal with this.

"Kiss me," he muttered, rolling onto his back.

House pushed Wilson's hair off his forehead.

"Please," Wilson said.

House leaned over and faintly touched his lips to Wilson's.

Wilson breathed in the lovely dry sugar and coffee smell of House. House's lips moved against his and he sighed opening his lips to accept House's tongue. It traced across the roof of Wilson's mouth. Wilson heard House moan, felt House's hand press against his chin, tilting his head upwards.

As they parted, Wilson looked up into the eyes that had started all this trouble and tried to think of something romantic to say regarding their current predicament.

"My stomach _really_ hurts," he whispered.

House smiled.

Wilson reached up and touched his face. "You only smile around me."

House smiled wider. "You are _so_ stoned."

Wilson giggled. "I'm sleepy. That's what I am." He stretched his arm above his head, dangling it off the arm of the couch.

"Do you want to take a nap?"

Wilson shifted around on House's lap. "I am taking a nap."

"No." House looked away awkwardly. "I mean, on my bed. I can put you to bed, if you want."

"Sure." Wilson sighed as he let his eyes close.

House got him into the bedroom with a minimal amount of fuss, aside from a put upon sigh and a mumbled, "I can't pick you up, you know."

Wilson sprawled out on the bed face up, pulling his belt from its loops and dropping it to the floor.

House made a little noise, as if swallowing a comment.

Wilson loosened his tie.

House turned to go.

"No!" Wilson called, as soon as he realized what was happening, which meant House was halfway through the door.

House turned.

"Don't leave me," Wilson said, half sitting. His tie bothered him suddenly and he wrenched it off, tossing it aside. He meant to rise and stop House physically, but the room wasn't keeping up with the speed his head was moving and it annoyed him. He fell back onto the bed. "You have to stay here."

"Why?" House asked.

"I can't go to sleep. You have to keep me awake."

House took a few slow steps into the room and sat on the end of the bed, tapping his cane against the soles of his sneakers.

"Okay," House said. "Let's talk then. Have you done any thinking lately?"

Wilson stared at the ceiling, watching the shadows change. "About us?" He asked, blinking slowly. "All the time. Every minute, every day." He strained to pull his head up. "_It sucks_." He spat, letting his head fall and rebound off the mattress. "All I can think about is you and your goddamn eyes and how you used to look at me." His hand gestured weakly, as though he were fanning away smoke. "Before the thing, I mean. When it was just us. You always used to look at me, stare, and I stared to and I was so stupid I didn't realize." He covered his eyes with his hands. "It was about sex. It's always about _fucking_ sex."

"It's not about sex," House said, putting a hand on Wilson's ankle.

"Well, why the hell not?" Wilson said a bit louder then he meant to. "I'm actually pretty good at sex, all right?"

House was definitely laughing at him.

Wilson propped himself up on his elbows to give his witty retort. "I am great at sex. Wonderful. Better then you. I am Don Quixote." He flopped back down.

"Don Juan."

"One of them. _God_, my stomach hurts." He rolled on his side and shielded his face from the light with one hand.

"Do you want another kiss?"

"No, I want my stomach to stop hurting."

"You should sleep," House said.

"I can't. Lay by me and talk to me. Please? So I don't fall asleep?" If he'd been rational at all, he'd have been afraid of pushing this caretaker House thing any further, but the fact of the matter was he wasn't rational, he was _so_ stoned, as had been said and he wanted House there, next to him. He reached a hand out, fluttering the fingers as though demanding a small child hold his hand at the cross walk.

House lowered himself onto the bed, slowly. Wilson studied him in the afternoon sunlight.

"Does your head still hurt?" House asked.

Wilson shrugged. "I can't tell."

"You should sleep," House said, yet again. "Really, it's the best thing."

"I can't," Wilson said, rearranging himself so that his head rested in the crook of his arm. One leg slid across the bed and his knee touched House's calf. "What if something bad happens?"

House lay his hand on Wilson's wrist, his thumb brushing against the smooth skin of Wilson's face.

"I won't let anything bad happen," House said.

Wilson slept.


	3. Chapter 3

"Wilson."

Wilson shrugged, burrowing his face deeper into the warm body beneath him.

"Wilson."

He curled his hand, discovering fabric at his fingertips. His cheek pressed against a scrawny chest, comfortable, but distinctly lacking breasts.

"Wilson? I have to pee."

He muttered something, bringing his hand to his face. The nail on his thumb pressed against his bottom lip.

The chest he pressed against heaved a sigh and quite suddenly he was dumped onto the mattress.

"Hmm!" he complained, rubbing his face against the warm sheet.

"Warned you."

Wilson slept.

It was dark when the thumping beat of repetitive bass finally woke him. He stretched, flinging one hand out over his head, the other rubbing the sweaty pale skin exposed when the first few buttons of his shirt were undone.

He rolled out of bed and padded barefoot into the living room. The room shone with the soft yellow glow of cocooning artificial light. Music played on the stereo too loudly. He stared at it a moment before finding the volume control and turning it down.

House came in from the kitchen. On seeing Wilson, he took a step backwards and ran his back against the wall, leaning. Almost too casually, he stuffed one hand into the pocket of his jeans.

"Hey," he said, "I just put on some coffee."

Wilson scratched at his hair. "What time is it?"

"10:30."

The coffeemaker hissed and cackled.

Wilson looked back into the bedroom. "Where's my belt?"

"Couldn't say."

"And my tie?"

House's lip curled up in a way that conveyed no happiness. He stared at a spot on the floor a few feet in front of him."

Wilson rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

"How's your stomach?" House asked.

It jumped, actually, but Wilson had no intention of telling him that. "It's fine."

The stood in silence for an awkward moment.

"Look…" Wilson began, then he stopped, suddenly aware he had no way to finish that sentence. _We need to talk,_ he thought, but couldn't bring himself to say those cliché words.

House looked up from the bit of floor that had so enraptured his attention.

Eyes met.

Wilson came across the room, slowly, slicking back his hair with his fingers. He stood before House and sleepily extended his left hand.

It hovered in the air, brushing the edge of House's personal space.

House, slowly, removed his hand from his pocket.

The tips of their fingers brushed. Fingers slid past fingers and Wilson felt House's grip tighten on his knuckles. He took a step forward.

The Beatles asked if he'd like a revolution, we-ell, you know.

Wilson took another step forward. "What happens now?"

House shrugged.

They kissed.

It was slow and warm and, by the time House backed him to the couch, Wilson was beyond caring about repercussions. When House pushed him down on the sofa cushions and lay on top of him, when House grabbed his leg and wrapped it around House's body, when House pressed his hips _there_ and his tongue _there_, everything Wilson had spent the last week worrying about slipped away.

He could only think, how natural this all felt. The weight of it and the texture of the skin and feel of stubble against his cheeks and how was it he had never done this before, because it felt like he'd done it a million times.

"How far do you want to go?" House asked, and Wilson struggled to produce words in any known language.

"I don't know," he said finally.

"How far have you…" House began. Wilson shook his head.

"Nothing. Never. Not with a…" Wilson laughed weakly. "I'm straight."

House laughed softly in his ear. "Sure."

"What do you want to do?"

"Well, I wouldn't mind throwing you over onto your stomach and fucking you raw."

Wilson flushed. Fear shot through him, but he couldn't ignore the wave of lust that followed.

"I don't…" he began. "Um, not that…not yet." He spoke the last two words without thinking and had to stop himself from chasing that thought down and shaking it until some meaning fell out.

"Alright. What?" House stroked the hair off Wilson's forehead, gazing down into his face. House's eyes were dazzled, his expression unreadable. Wilson cupped his high cheekbone and they kissed again.

"Something between?" Wilson asked as they parted for breath. "Something between what we've done and…"

"Yeah," he said. They kissed and the weight of their bodies shifted, bringing them closer. His hands went to where Wilson's belt should have been, and Wilson felt a little panic at the realization that the slim leather barrier was missing. House's hands went straight for his fly and yanked it open and this was too much, too fast.

"Stop." Wilson gasped, grabbing the hands and pushing them away. The grip switched and the hands grabbed his wrists, pushing down. "Wait," Wilson said. House pushed rougher against him, something hard pressed into Wilson's hip.

Wilson wrenched his hands away and pushed roughly at House's shoulders. "Stop!"

House cursed and banged a hand against the arm of the couch, too close to Wilson's head for his comfort. House pushed off him, sitting up and looking away. Wilson spent a moment drawn back into the cushions.

"House?"

"Yeah," House said, still refusing to look his way.

"I'm sorry."

"It's fine."

Wilson saw the muscles in House's arm tense as he tried to push himself off the couch. Instinctively Wilson sat up and laid his hands on House's upper arms. The muscles beneath his fingers relaxed as he discovered his forehead rested neatly in the place where House's back met his neck. It smelled nice.

Wilson sighed. "Just a little slower," he said.

"Yeah."

Wilson let his hands slide down House's arms, bringing his chest closer to House's back. His hands explored the contours of House's chest and stomach before allowing himself to brush his palms against denim.

House's head lolled back and he whispered something that might have been, "Yes."

Wilson smiled, pressing the heel of his hand a little harder. It was strangely similar to a certain solitary activity. Except it was House's breath that hitched and House's body that arched up.

He kissed the soft skin of House's neck and let his warm breath follow. House fidgeted, pushing back against Wilson's stomach. Wilson touched House's knees, letting his hands draw from knee to hip, plotting the difference in one mangled thigh.

Wilson slipped his hands under House's t-shirt and touched skin. It was soft and sweaty and Wilson liked the feel of it under his palms.

"Wilson…" House whispered.

"Yes."

"You're being a tease."

Wilson laughed, dropping his hands. "Sorry, I'm new at this."

House pivoted, turning to face him.

"What's the matter?" he asked. "Afraid I'm gonna hurt you?"

Wilson laughed again, nervously. "Maybe…a little."

House raised an eyebrow. "I won't."

They kissed again, slow and deep and Wilson swallowed his fear with the taste of House's tongue. His shirt came off as he was pushed back and there were warms hands on him, tracing the skin from his tense shoulders to his motionless hands.

"Wilson…" House said, and how he managed to speak without breaking the rhythm of their lips, Wilson didn't know. "Wilson, just touch me."

Wilson slowly brought his arms around House's shoulders. He slid his hands down House's back and caught the fabric of his t-shirt, bringing it over House's head.

Things went faster now, the feeling of skin against skin sped up the process. Wilson gasped in hot breath when House's teeth met his neck. Somehow they fell onto the floor. Both pushed and their bodies rolled back and forth in the tight space between couch and coffee table, each jarring their backs against furniture, until House got a foothold on something and jammed Wilson steady against the couch.

The carpet burned against Wilson's side as their hands slid between their bodies. Wilson's went to House's chest, shoulders, biceps, shoulder blades, eager to memorize their shapes. House's hands slid down, lingering near Wilson's hips a moment before pushing down Wilson's waistband. Wilson leaned into House's earnest hands, biting his lip and then biting House's.

Pressed at an uncomfortable angle, he pushed forward, forcing a rhythm not just with hands but with House's whole body sliding in time. The couch shifted back suddenly, screeching on the floor, and Wilson went flat on his back but House was there too, leaning into him.

Wilson let himself make a noise, breathy and desperate, and he felt House's smile. The world was spinning around him faster and faster. Compressing. Spiraling down into hands and lips and the in, out, in, out of breath and oh god, _oh_ god, _oh god._

"Yes," he hissed. His body went into convulsions at House's careful hand.

He swallowed.

His head dropped with a thud.

House laughed. It sounded warm and comforting in the echo of his heartbeat. Wilson's head swung, not leaving the floor, examining the dust bunnies under House's couch.

He swallowed again.

"Well," he began, tilting his head up slightly to survey House's stomach and then looking away. "Well," he repeated.

House grabbed his t-shirt off the couch, quickly wiped it across his stomach and offered it to Wilson before rolling onto his back. Wilson cleaned himself off quickly and buttoned his fly.

"Well," he said a final time, tossing aside the t-shirt and letting his hands hit the floor. A thought hit him. "Did you want to…?"

"Very much," House said, "but I can't really move right now." House grabbed Wilson's hand and pressed it against his hip. Wilson felt the jumping of an over worked muscle group.

"Oh damn, I'm sorry…"

"Stop."

They lay on the floor staring at the ceiling. Wilson curled his arm under his head, growing thoughtful.

"Well," he said, "so you can fuck like that."

House laughed. "Give me a minute and I'll show you."

And the radio played.


End file.
